Archive for July, 2010

Before you invoke the power of angels it should be pointed out that in this neighborhood, where the earth reality well, at times, seems to be the repository for all the hard headed knotheads and social rabble rousers of the universe, angels are the beat cops, making sure our shenanigans don’t spill out into the rest of polite society.

What that means is that they are your friend right up until the moment you step over the line.


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I recently found myself sitting in a jury pool at the local courthouse, serving my time as a ‘good citizen’. The judge was white haired and bent with arthritis and he loved to hear himself talk. The courtroom was overly warm and airless. Thirty minutes into his explanation of duties to the 55 potential jurors and everyone’s eyes glazed over. One hour in and we were all nodding off.  The 20 odd people who were already picked for the hot seats were probably praying to god for an earthquake to open up and swallow them.

Then the judge read the alleged charges for the alleged crime committed by the alleged perpetrator upon an alleged victim who happened to be under the age of 12. Sexual molestation. Both the alleged victim and the alleged criminal had the same last name. Intense emotion arced through the room like heat lightning.  It seemed as if all the oxygen suddenly got sucked out of the room.

The judge did not skip a beat. He started listing possible evidence items and it became apparent that this is not only abuse, but rape, perhaps violent rape. The air became tinted with the red glow of rage.

Then the judge began questioning the potential jurors one at a time. Have you ever been a victim of a crime? Everyone, intent on answering honestly, said no, not really, that besides a few car break ins or garage break ins, no one had ever been a victim. Then he asked if the juror had personally been a victim or knew someone who had been a victim of rape/incest/pedophilia/sexual abuse. That’s when things began to unravel.

It is estimated that 1 in 4 women in the US have been a victim of sexual abuse as a child. This number is just a rough guess because inappropriate sexual contact between an adult and a child is the single most under-reported crime on the planet. This is due mostly to the fact that the perpetrators are usually a close family member, sometimes a family friend but rarely a random stranger thus making it unlikely that the adults who should be acting as caretakers and advocates for the child would publicly discuss these acts at all and certainly not with any person with legal authority.

But that is only part of why the crime is under-reported. Children, small children especially, are akin to aliens from another planet, hiding inside of their human skin, undercover agents for the other side of the Veil, trying to learn the ways of this strange species called human. They rely heavily on parents and family for cues to correct behavior and survival modes. Events happen. If things are logical and linear, if things make sense and fall into the rest of the pattern of life on this planet with ease, then the experiences get laid down in the random access memory of the brain to be called up at will. Memories accumulate and turn into wisdom.

Incest is neither logical nor is it a part of the rational pattern of life that promotes the survival of the species. In fact, it is the single most destructive thing a caregiver can do to a child. Murder would be kinder.  The little alien being who is walking about in a child’s skin must take this destructive and irrational experience, decipher it without adult help and put it somewhere else in the memory banks. The memories go on the ‘hard drive’, hardwired into the operating system as an ‘and/or’ gate. If the situation ever occurs again, the reaction will be instinctive, unconscious, instantaneous and accompanied by copious amounts of adrenaline. Thus the brain insures its continued survival.

What is left in the random access memory of the brain is an event that has no classification, no rational reason for being, unconnected to other classifications of experiences, unexplained and unexplainable by the adults whose duty it is to do such things, therefore it gets shoved into a file called “random crap that I might need later”. It’s like the junk drawer in your kitchen. Kids shove things in there with the thought that they might eventually figure it out or have use for it later and then they promptly forget about it. Trauma becomes not so much repressed memory but more memory in limbo.

So there we sat, a room of 55 people, all claiming to have never experienced crime, yet after being questioned by the judge, out of the first twenty, only twelve were left and of the next eight called to replace them, six were excused. It was as if every woman in the room suddenly went rummaging through her junk drawer and found that strange widget she had been keeping there for so many years, pulled it out into the light of day and had an epiphany of recognition. You could almost hear them thinking. “Ah, so that is what this thing is. It is a criminal act committed against a defenseless child. Someone should have gone to jail for this. Why didn’t they?”

The judge seemed annoyed. I wonder why. Were we not consistent with the statistical probability? In a room of 55 people 14 would be victims and 14 would be in a relationship with a victim and perhaps another 14 would be friends and family of a victim. 55 was a borderline number. Probability said that they were going to be lucky just finding 12 people who could truly sit in blind judgment.

Perhaps the most disturbing part of the whole experience was the judge and the lawyers and the legal staff present. This was just another day at the office for them. The humanity of the case had been reduced down to rules of law and evidence. It was all a game. I truly believe they did not care whether the perpetrator was guilty or not. Which brings us to the last reason crimes such as these are under reported.

Of the few women I know who went through the process of reporting the crime and seeking justice, every one of them came away with a feeling of being betrayed and brutalized, a trauma almost, if not more damaging than the original crime.

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generic empath definition

the above article is a description of the passive state of empathy. In a nut shell, empathy is the act of extreme listening, using all the tools at your disposal. Empaths are the equivalent of a sensor array on the mast of a battle cruiser.

the active state of empathy falls under the roommate rule–roommate rule: if the mess bothers you and you are the only one to notice it or the first to notice it, or the only one who cares, guess what, you get to clean it up–that is to say, if you can effect change, you do.

if one is jacked into the chi of the OneVerse, the power to effect change is considerable. With practice, that energy can be channeled like lightning–point it where it wants to go and get out of the way.

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“Do not love me, I cannot bear the burden of it,” you whisper into the Void.

Too late. The OneMother cannot do else but love.  You have cried out in your despair and she heard you, gathering you up. She holds you in her heart. Short of open heart surgery, short of cutting out the place in her being where you reside, she cannot do aught but see you, know you, love you without condition.

“Do not love me, I cannot return it in kind. The shame and the guilt of this torments me,” you say.

The OneMother expects nothing in return.  Well, almost nothing. She expects you to accept the gift and pass it on, as it was given, i.e. no strings attached. Love is a river that dies only when it is dammed and caged, and she would have you not hinder that process.

“Do not love me, I am not worthy of such adoration. My own ability to love suffers in comparison. I hate you for proving me inadequate. I hate you holding up a mirror to my soul that I might see my own emptiness,” you say.

But the OneMother does not judge. Why should you? Can you not just accept the gift of love freely given?

“Do not love me. It is a light that shines into my darkness and forces me to awaken, forces me to move, forces me to overcome ten thousand years of human inertia. Leave me be. Do not disturb my slumber. Let me find comfort in my blindness,” you cry.

But this is the one thing that she will not grant you. The OneMother is on her own journey, a journey that cannot be postponed. It cannot be helped, this transition. Your fates and hers are inextricably entwined. She has been kind up until now, sacrificing herself to shield you from the worst of the buffeting as a Mother might shield an infant, but that is about to end.

Unfortunately for you, the OneMother has been reminded that when push comes to shove, there are no neutral territories , no non-combatants in this battle, no spectators in this contest; old or young, innocent or wicked, rich or poor, unconscious or self aware, you have all come well armed to the proverbial gun battle.

Buck up and try not to whine too much. Cowering in a corner is a terrible way to meet your fate. It is the berzerkers who will win the battles and the fiercely sentient who will win this war. In the end, the OneMother is willing to accept the consequences of her choices and risk your hatred of Her.

“Curse you, you bitch,” you say, shaking your fist at heaven. “I will never be grateful. I will never say thank you.”

Nor does she expect it. The OneMother is vastly amused by your precocious rage.

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intellectual property

the OneMother is vastly amused by this concept

she finds it funny that human, in their overwhelming need to stake claim to a territory, piss on the things to mark our ownership, to build fences and boundaries and borders, to seek ownership of autonomous beings such as our spouses and our children, to bind our citizens and our workers in the ropes of bureaucracy and servitude, have taken the the idea of ownership to absurd extremes.

As much as you may claim otherwise, you cannot own an idea. All the ideas are Hers. It is she who steers the ship of your communal mind. It is she who directs the flights of fancy of the human hive mind. The pivotal ideas that take our species to the next level are Hers. They are dreamed in synchonisity and in simultaneous harmonics by every dreamer on teh planet.

Ownership, in the terms of human legalese, goes to the person who gets to the bank first to deposit the check. To ascribe anything more to their accomplishments than the happenstance of timing is utter hubris.

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